


never brought to mind

by dustofwarfare



Series: broken pieces [1]
Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Multi, hojo as interesting not a one-dimensional villain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare
Summary: Nineteen years ago Hojo had taken a child from its mother’s arms. Nineteen years ago he’d locked a man and his demons away to sleep for eternity. He’d done it all for a child he had forced himself not to love, because if he’d loved him, Hojo could not have done any of it at all.Sephiroth goes to find Hojo after a few too many Hypers makes him worry about readiness for his upcoming stint in Wutai -- and finds Hojo unexpectedly drinking and observing an important, if macabre, anniversary. Conversations ensue.





	never brought to mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pixeled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixeled/gifts).



> For Pixeled who writes me AWESOME things and then I'm like /here have some depressing fic :| But I've been having a lot of fun writing Hojo and I have ALL KINDS OF THOUGHTS about my backstory as far as Hojo/Vincent/Lucrecia goes. 
> 
> I'm not trying to make Hojo likeable, just interesting. One-dimensional villains never do it for me. The timeline of this might not work for you, and that's cool. It's not like it makes any sense to anyone anyway. 
> 
> The thing about the Hypers is 100% from Pixeled's excellent fic "Make You Weak" because the idea of Gen and Seph getting high off Hypers is <3_<3 
> 
> Of course then I used that to write angsty Hojo character study stuff. BUT W/E. 
> 
> This is probably in the same 'verse as Broken Pieces, so I'm gonna put in there as kinda prequel-y backstory stuff. 
> 
> Title is from a lyric in the song "Auld Lang Syne" which is traditionally sung at New Year's.

 

It was late on the first day of the new year, long past the time when most people would be recovered from their hangovers, likely having just gone to bed and written the day off as a loss. Sephiroth was expected to be in Wutai in less than twenty-four hours, but there was no way he’d be able to go in his current condition.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Angeal said with a sigh, peering into Sephiroth’s eyes. “They’re still dilated.”

“Oh, Angeal,” Genesis huffed, as if Angeal was blaming him for Sephiroth’s condition – which he should, because it was most definitely Genesis’ fault. “It’ll wear off eventually. Can’t we just go fuck?”

“You two can fuck until the chocobos come home, but I’m going to bed.” Angeal shook his head. “I’ve never in my life seen you smile this much, Seph.”

“It’s a side effect of the drug,” said Sephiroth.  

Genesis seemed to think that was very funny and started laughing again.

“Well. It would be nice, except somehow, you look like you’re in pain.”

“You know how much our dear Sephiroth hates fun,” Genesis chimed in, cheerily. He patted the bed beside him. “Bring your mad hatter smile and those serpent eyes of yours over here, my darling silver-haired stud. Let’s see if you can make me stop talking.”

“If so, I’ll give you as many Hypers as you can handle,” Angeal promised, smiling in affection at Genesis.

Sephiroth already knew how many Hypers he can handle, and the answer was three less than he and Genesis took earlier. Soldiers couldn’t get drunk and Gen wanted some “substance-created fun”, and it was one of the few things that could affect the SOLDIERs for any sufficient period of time.

Except that Sephiroth was sore, tired, and while he could fuck or be fucked without a problem, not particularly in the mood. The last time they’d come down off the high together but this was – well, he’d stupidly competed with Genesis because it seemed to be the basis of their relationship, and that meant he was feeling decidedly cranky and unwilling to indulge the lanky, smirking redhead in anything more than a terse good-bye.

Except…well. Perhaps one last fuck would clear the drug from his system and Sephiroth could sleep.

It did – but only for Genesis. Which meant Sephiroth stood there in the dark, staring at Genesis’s soundly sleeping form and feeling like he was going to crawl out of his skin. He would need all his faculties about him to leave for Wutai – which meant he only had one option, since sex and a shower and even six glasses of water had done nothing to cleanse out the last of the Hypers.

He would have to find Hojo.

 

***

When Sephiroth failed to locate the professor in any of the labs, he realized with some sort of surprise that he had no idea where the man’s personal apartments were.

As a child, Sephiroth had wondered about that since he himself slept in the lab. He used to imagine, when he was very young, leaving at the end of the night with the professor and going home, wherever that happened to be – but he had no idea how he’d come up with such a fanciful notion.  

The night technician looked terrified to see him. Sephiroth figured it was due to a mix of his usual reputation and the fact his eyes were dilated, glowing so brightly he could see them shining off the metal in the lab.

“Pro-professor Hojo is on leave for the next two days,” the woman said. She kept glancing at the door. Sephiroth could break her neck before she even thought about making a dash for it, but he didn’t say that.

“He’s out of Midgar, then?” Sephiroth asked.

 “I – I don’t know, sir,” the woman stammered, despite there being no reason she should have to _sir_ him, given she was a civilian. “He – did this last year, too. Takes New Year’s off and the day after.”

How extraordinary. Sephiroth blinked, wondering if he’d ever heard of such a thing before – Hojo taking a yearly vacation? Perhaps he was still under the influence of the Hypers and had fallen asleep in Genesis’s apartment, and this was some strange dream.  

“You might try his apartments, Mr….um. Sir,” the woman added, clearly not wanting to use his first name and having no other idea what to call him.

“I have no idea where they are.” Sephiroth picked up a test tube and stared at it, fascinated. “What is this?”

“It’s um.” The woman made a noise like a high-pitched giggle. “Cleaning solution? So…soap. Probably. I think so. Look, I’m not…really sure, I don’t ask a lot of questions. It’s kinda how I keep this job.”  

Sephiroth didn’t bother to ask her if she knew where Hojo lived. Tseng owed him a favor, and if the Turk was surprised at Sephiroth’s call asking for that particular bit of information, he was too much a professional to let it show.

***

Hojo’s apartment was a few floors above Sephiroth’s own, a likely sign he was in the president’s good graces.

It was late, and it took three knocks before Hojo’s voice came from behind the door. “If this isn’t an emergency, you’ll end your life in a mako tank and I’ll make certain you’re awake long enough to scream when I put you there.”

“I stopped screaming from mako when I was seven,” Sephiroth answered. “As I recall, you made a note in my file about it.”

A pause. “Sephiroth?”

“Yes.”

Hojo did not open the door. “Is there some problem?”

“Yes,” Sephiroth said, a bit testily. “Would I be here, Professor, if there wasn’t?”

The door opened to reveal darkness and a form retreating down a dark hallway; Sephiroth entered, closed the door behind him, and followed the professor’s lanky form into the kitchen.

Once there, he stopped and stared. Perhaps he really was still asleep. None of this made any sense.

First, Hojo didn’t look anything like he did in the lab. He wasn’t wearing a lab coat, which marked the first time in Sephiroth’s entire nineteen years of life that he’d ever seen the man in anything but white. He was dressed in dark pants and a simple long-sleeved shirt, and his hair – which had always, without fail, been gathered in low ponytail at the nape of Hojo’s neck – was loose around his face.

Despite the strangeness of seeing him this way, Sephiroth still saw no familial likeness between them. Perhaps those rumors of his parentage were just that – rumors.

 “Well?” Hojo stood behind the island in his kitchen, drinking from a set of traditional Wutain sake glasses and smoking a thin black cigarette.

“You’re smoking?” Sephiroth asked, brows raised in surprise. “That’s very unhealthy, you know.”

“I’m aware.” Hojo took a drag off the cigarette, which did not smell at all like the ones Genesis sometimes smoked. This one was rather spicy and, though Sephiroth wasn’t sure why, the scent was oddly familiar.

Hojo regarded Sephiroth from those shrewd dark eyes of his. With the unbound hair, the lack of a lab coat, the clove cigarette and the face free of his glasses…he might not look like Sephiroth, but he certainly appeared more Wutain than Sephiroth had ever seen. He wondered if that bothered Hojo – creating the very weapons that was going to bring his homeland under ShinRa’s heel.

Probably not. Hojo had never seemed to suffer an undue amount of concern over much of anything.  

“What _is_ the matter with you?” Hojo asked, and peered at him. “Your eyes are dilated. Have you been poisoned?”

“It’s Hyper,” said Sephiroth.

“For what reason? Are we under attack? A training exercise of some sort?” Hojo took a drag off his cigarette.

“Entertainment,” Sephiroth said shortly. There was no point in lying; Hojo was the last man who should pronounce moral judgement on anyone for doing just about anything.

Hojo squinted through the smoke at him. “I’m not following.”

“You’re smoking and drinking for entertainment, are you not?” Sephiroth asked, leaning against the counter. “My biology makes it impossible to get drunk. I took…more than the recommended dosage of Hyper for recreational purposes.”

“I’m not drinking or smoking for entertainment,” Hojo said, in a voice that Sephiroth had never heard him use before. “I’m not the sort of man who has _fun_ , and I can’t imagine you’d think I am.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

Hojo leaned against the counter and took another drag, dark eyes narrowed as he exhaled. “Why did you choose to do something so absurd as inject yourself with Hyper in the first place? Wait, don’t tell me. It was that First you’re sleeping with – the one with that ridiculous name, hmm? Hollander’s pet project?”

Ah, there was the Hojo Sephiroth knew and tolerated. “Yes, Genesis Rhapsodos.”

Hojo squinted at him. “You leave for Wutai tomorrow.”

Sephiroth inclined his head. “I find the effects displeasing and I wish them to stop. I’ve had my fun, and I’m unable to sleep. I dislike the way it feels.”

Hojo laughed. “Well, my boy, that’s unfortunate, isn’t it?”

“Am I?” Sephiroth asked, reaching for the cigarettes. He did so slowly, giving Hojo ample time to tell him no.

Hojo watched but didn’t stop him. “Are you, what? Unfortunate? I should say so, given the state you’re in. ShinRa’s prize SOLDIER, indeed,” Hojo sneered.  

“Your _boy_ ,” Sephiroth sneered right back, his head tilted.

“I thought you’d gotten over caring about that when you were a child,” Hojo chastised, sounding bored. “Really, Sephiroth, biology is hardly important when yours has been so thoroughly enhanced.”

Enhanced, Hojo called it. _Fucked-with,_ Genesis would say.

“I’m simply curious.” Sephiroth inhaled, though he disliked smoking and had only done it a scant few times with Genesis. The scent memory returned, stronger this time. “I’ve smelled these before.”

“You have spent time in Wutai as of late,” Hojo reminded him. The dim light from the kitchen cast shadows over his sharp features and made him look almost sinister. “And from what I understand, you do quite a bit of burning while you’re there.”

Sephiroth let that go without response. Villages smelled like death and ash when they burned, no matter where they happened to be located. “No, it’s…I can’t quite place it.” He turned the cigarette around in his fingers. “Did you smoke these when I was young?”

To Sephiroth’s surprise, Hojo actually answered. “Yes.”

“So you _are_ my father.”

“I raised you,” Hojo corrected, seeming unconcerned. “A fact of which you are perfectly aware, unless your memory is suffering. I made you into something better than a son – why would you care about anything else?”

Sephiroth shrugged. “I like to know things. Perhaps because I was raised by a scientist.”

“Well.” Hojo didn’t smile, but he inclined his head – his approval was a rare thing. “There is that. But you’re a soldier now, and all you need to know is what they tell you. Don’t go looking for problems, boy. They’ll find you if you do.”

“Why are you drinking?” Sephiroth asked, unused to this sort of conversation with this man, this man who had strapped him to tables as a young as six, pumped him full of poison and watched with dispassionate interest when he screamed, left him alone in a darkened lab without even a nightlight for company. “The woman in the lab said you did this last year, too. Took time off, I mean.”

“Did she? I’ll have to kill her.” Hojo’s smile was wicked, not sober. “I’m observing a…personal anniversary.”

“You didn’t wish to celebrate it last night, like everyone else?” Sephiroth asked.

“I didn’t say that I was _celebrating_ , did I?”

No. No he hadn’t.  Sephiroth blinked in surprise as Hojo poured him a shot and slid it across the counter before pouring another for himself. “It’s impossible for me to feel the effects of alcohol, you realize. Will this help?”

Hojo’s laugh was high, wild, like the bark of a mad dog. “It hasn’t yet.”

Sephiroth took his shot. The liquor burned the whole way down.

***

Hojo watched as Sephiroth gently returned the shot glass to the counter. He seemed unimpressed by the sake. He should be – it wasn’t particularly good sake, Hojo wasn’t drinking it for the taste.

He was drinking it to get drunk, and the fact that the reason why was standing in his kitchen…ah. What an ill-timed coincidence. Hojo watched as Sephiroth went to the sink and put out the cigarette he’d barely smoked, washed his hands thoroughly to remove the scent.  

The dim light in the kitchen shone on his silver hair. When he’d been born it had been black as pitch, with the slight curl his father’s had when it dried naturally. Sephiroth’s eyes were glowing from the Hyper; Hojo could see the reflection in the dark glass of the window above the sink.

Sephiroth’s eyes were the first place Hojo had injected the mako, right into the irises. It had taken almost a year for them to change from crimson to jade. The child’s hair had fallen out completely in the first two months; it had grown back the color it was now, the color of moonlight on snow, and he supposed that was from the additional Jenova cell injections after Sephiroth’s birth.

As he grew older, Hojo saw his father in Sephiroth’s face; the cheekbones, the shape of the eyes, even the low timbre of his voice. Lucrecia’s features were there, delicate but obvious even if only to him – the thin arch of his brow, the shape of his mouth. The impossible cowlick that would never lay flat, that, like his mother, Sephiroth had eventually given up trying to tame.

It was remarkable how easy it was to conceal the child’s parentage. He’d been sure, those first few years, that someone would notice the young Sephiroth’s resemblance to the missing Turk Vincent Valentine.  

_Please, Hojo. Please…don’t let them find out he’s my son. Please, they’ll hurt him, they’ll – they’ll use him to hurt me, and you, and her and I can’t – I can’t do that to any of you. Please…._

Lucrecia, her eyes wild at the end, clutching her distended stomach when the nightmares woke her screaming. _Oh, Gods, what have we done, what have we_ done…

Vincent, on her other side in the bed they all shared, staring over at Hojo with horrified eyes. _It’s me – it’s because it’s my child, they’ll take him and that will kill her, Hojo, you can’t let them have him –_

Lucrecia’s increasing paranoia in the days leading up to Sephiroth’s birth…

_Hojo, he’s not – we’ve done something, it’s not a Cetra, I don’t know what Jenova is but I think – I think this child is not a child but something terrible, I see it burning –_

Sephiroth, now, standing in his kitchen – whole, alive, a warrior called a hero because he killed for the right people. They thought he was Hojo’s son, that Hojo must be a terrible man without a conscience to do what he’d done, to use a child for an experiment. His own child.

They had no idea what Hojo had done. Or why. But they were right to think it was terrible.

Whoever thought love was bright and beautiful had never been caught in it.

“If you can’t help me,” Sephiroth said, stiffly, in that voice that sounded so much like Vincent’s, “Then I shall leave you in peace.”

_If only you could, child. It is far too late for that._

“There’s really only one thing to be done,” Hojo told him. His expression was too grim to be a smile. “You’ll simply have to endure and hope it’s gone in the morning.” That’s what Hojo did, every night on this year, to moderate levels of success.

He poured another shot. The bottle would soon be empty.

“Hojo.” Sephiroth’s voice was intense, low. He was a soldier who’d spotted some advantage; Hojo being drunk, most likely, and he wanted more answers, had more questions, and by Leviathan, Hojo wanted to be left _alone._

“What?”

“What was my mother’s name?”

_Lucrecia. She was beautiful, and your father and I loved her, and she was terrified of you. She thought you were an abomination but refused to get rid of you. She would have let her love for you destroy you both. So I took you away, because she begged me to keep you safe, and you would not have been safe. Not with her._

“Jenova.” There. Better a mother unwillingly locked in a tank than one who chose to put herself there.

“And what happened to her?”

_She couldn’t handle the responsibility of the choices she’d made, so she left it all to me._ “She died when you were born.”

Sephiroth nodded but said nothing. He did not ask any further questions about his father, for which Hojo was glad. Vincent’s last desperate plea had been _make sure they don’t know he’s mine. No one can know. Promise me, Hojo. Please._

Hojo had promised. And no one knew.

Sephiroth left without another word, closing the door gently behind him.

Nineteen years ago Hojo had taken a child from its mother’s arms. Nineteen years ago he’d locked a man and his demons away to sleep for eternity. He’d done it all for a child he had forced himself not to love, because if he’d loved him, Hojo could not have done any of it at all.

_Keep him safe, please,_ Lucrecia had pleaded.

_Don’t let them know he’s mine,_ Vincent had begged him.

Tomorrow Hojo would wake up and his own demons would be locked away, like Vincent in his rotted-silk casket. His heart would be frozen in ice with Lucrecia in her cave. Hojo, though -- he would endure, he would go on.

Tonight…

Hojo raised the shot glass and gave a small bow toward the door. “Happy birthday, Sephiroth,” he said, and took the shot. It was the last one in the bottle.

This year.


End file.
